


i like the sad eyes, bad guys, mouth full of white lies

by voxofthevoid



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Bucky Barnes is Not the Winter Soldier, Canon Bucky Barnes, D/s, Desk Sex, M/M, Modern Steve Rogers, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Spies & Secret Agents, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:41:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27946961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voxofthevoid/pseuds/voxofthevoid
Summary: Bucky really hopes Steve Grant isn’t Hydra.He doesn’t seem the type, but then, neither did any of the others. The sweet old lady in the apartment neighboring his sure as fuck didn’t until she pulled a gun on him. And the jovial father of two who was Bucky’s handler for a couple of missions was harmless and helpful right until he wasn’t.And Steve, with his all-American gleam and smiles that don’t quite reach his eyes, is a far likelier candidate than those two.Bucky’s still bent over his desk with his shirt unbuttoned and pants loose at his ankles.It’s been a long, long time, and it’s a brave new world.-Bucky goes undercover. It’s all well and good until he fucks his boss.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 127
Kudos: 874





	i like the sad eyes, bad guys, mouth full of white lies

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [i like the sad eyes, bad guys, mouth full of white lies](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28044252) by [iamyourvirgil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamyourvirgil/pseuds/iamyourvirgil)



> This is one of those PWPs that came out of nowhere and didn’t leave me be till I scribbled it down. Enjoy! 
> 
> As always, you can find me on [tumblr](https://voxofthevoid.tumblr.com/).

Bucky really hopes Steve Grant isn’t Hydra.

He doesn’t seem the type, but then, neither did any of the others. The sweet old lady in the apartment neighboring his sure as fuck didn’t until she pulled a gun on him. And the jovial father of two who was Bucky’s handler for a couple of missions was harmless and helpful right until he wasn’t.

And Steve, with his all-American gleam and smiles that don’t quite reach his eyes, is a far likelier candidate than those two.

Bucky’s still bent over his desk with his shirt unbuttoned and pants loose at his ankles.

He doesn’t quite know he got there because yeah, Steve’s the kind of man who twists him all up inside, but Bucky’s had a lifetime—hah—of practice looking at men without _looking_ at men. Or maybe that right there is the double-edged sword because Bucky knew just as well to spot the men who were looking-without-looking, and that was the point where he made a move, usually, subtlety pushed to the back to make room for the bottomless pit of need inside him.

And Steve did just that, eyes flicking down to Bucky’s mouth once and sharpening. They were slower to meander back up to meet Bucky’s stunned stare, and when they did, Steve didn’t hide his want, and Bucky couldn’t gather himself in time to swallow his own.

It’s been a long, long time, and it’s a brave new world.

The man behind him slides big, warm hands between Bucky’s legs and spreads his thighs wider. His body slots into the space between them, his presence a dark, looming thing.

Bucky shivers when two fingers walk up his spine.

“Nervous?” rumbles a deep voice.

Bucky decides to blame his current predicament on Steve’s voice, deep and smooth like velvet. It worms its way inside Bucky’s skin, clever and insidious, robs him of thought and sense.

“I’m fine,” Bucky chokes out, half muffled by his pillowing arms. “Go on.”

Steve hums. It’s a quiet, considering sound. There’s nothing half so hesitant about the wet fingers that prod at Bucky’s hole. He didn’t hear Steve take out the lube, let alone hear it, and Christ, isn’t that horrifying, letting a man he barely knows bent him over his desk without even checking if he’s got enough stuff to not tear Bucky apart.

He really, _really_ hopes Steve isn’t Hydra.

At work, Steve’s the sort of no-nonsense guy who makes spines straighten and smiles turn nervous at the edges, but he’s well-liked even though he’s new, and Bucky has no clue how any of that translates to sex, right until he’s given a hands-on demonstration that tears a whimper out of his throat.

Steve doesn’t play around, doesn’t waste time, and Bucky gulps in air as he tries to relax for the finger squirming into him. Bucky hasn’t taken fingers other than his in some time, to make the understatement of the century, and it’s hard for his body to get the memo that it’s got to suck it up and give it up. Bucky considers, just for a moment, calling it quits and getting the fuck out of here. Steve wouldn’t push it, probably, and if he does, Bucky knows how push back and break a few bones while he’s at it, but as easy as it would be to pull up his pants and flee, he doesn’t _want_ to.

This is a stupid idea, and Bucky hasn’t compromised himself on a mission this spectacularly in years, but he can’t say he doesn’t want to here, bent over Steve’s huge wooden desk with rough, thick fingers fucking him open.

Steve’s generous with the lube, and he’s not gentle but not mean either, prepping Bucky with an economy of motion that sinks claws of heat into Bucky’s gut. He’s always been weak to men who’re a little like stone.

And well, it’s not like he ever stuck around after to see what lay under the hard exterior. He doesn’t intent to this time either.

Steve pulls his fingers out. Bucky whines at the sudden emptiness, the space Steve carved open inside him throbbing like a fresh bruise. He can’t imagine how it will be afterward, when he’s clenching around the gaping absence of a cock. He can’t even remember how it felt. His body’s a new thing in some ways, a land whose borders Bucky once knew and has yet to rediscover.

Steve doesn’t leave him hollow and aching for long. His hands spread Bucky’s cheeks wide, air falling cool on his hole. It twitches, and Bucky’s cheeks are burning from being so exposed. He can feel Steve’s gaze like a physical weight on delicate places, and his gut swoops in answer.

And then he finds out that no matter how long it’s been, his body remembers the blunt press of a cock demanding entry.

Steve’s wrapped up, blood-hot skin covered in latex. Bucky didn’t even think about condoms, but then, he doesn’t need to. He wonders whether Steve thought that was weird, whether he thinks any of this is weird, or if he’s used to his demanding touch burning through men’s good sense.

Steve presses in, and he’s—he’s big, Bucky knows from the glimpse he stole over his shoulder, but it’s one thing to see Steve’s half-soft dick and another to feel it prod at his hole in its full glory. He tenses, can’t help it, frantic breaths shuddering through him. He half expects Steve to just push in, take what he wants because he’s not a considerate lay any more than he’s a cruel one, which is more than can be said for most men Bucky’s fucked.

But Steve stops and, for the first time since he pushed a finger into Bucky, speaks.

“Too much?”

Bucky bites his lips and after a brief, furious internal debate, answers, “It’s been a while.”

It’s not a lie, just not the whole truth.

It has been a while. It’s been seventy-one years.

“Ah,” Steve says. His voice is deep, gruff, not the kind to gentle easily. “I’ll take it slow.”

Bucky swallows. There’s a smile tugging at his lips for some godforsaken reason. He doesn’t know this guy all that well, but it suits him, this response that’s neither callous disregard nor syrupy sweetness.

“Appreciated,” he says. He pushes his body back, only enough that Steve’s cock is a more urgent pressure at his hole. “Don’t be too slow.”

Steve—he laughs.

Bucky sucks in a breath at the sound, surprised and not unpleasantly. It’s his first time hearing it. He’s barely seen smile, and that was when Bucky gave a slight nod to the hand that grasped his wrist and squeezed to ask a wordless question. It’s not illegal anymore, what they’re doing, but in this room, it’s sure as hell unethical. On Steve’s part at least; Bucky’s not who he claims to be, and all he’s hoping now is that Steve is.

“Alright,” Steve says finally. His voice is soft, and Bucky’s not sure whether that’s for the sake of secrecy or if this is the kind of lover he is, unsmiling and silent, his body doing the talking for him.

And then he’s pushing into Bucky and just like that, it’s hard to think.

He’s slow as promised, but that’s little cause for respite when he’s that thick, splitting Bucky wide open on the sheer, damning girth of him. Bucky can’t find the air to scream. He sinks his teeth into the meaty stretch of his own arm and tries to let the pain ground him. The ache of Steve taking him is a whole other sort. It throbs, deep and hot, a second heartbeat shuddering to life deep inside Bucky.

Steve stops after a bit, and Bucky doesn’t have the strength to lift his head and look, but he knows Steve’s not done, that he’s got more to give. He pulls out instead, cock dragging along Bucky’s walls, making them clench helplessly. He doesn’t take it out all the way, and Bucky’s not sure whether to be grateful that he’s spared the burn of Steve screwing him open again or maddened by how he’s kept wide open by just the tip. It’s a curious duality, the aching emptiness deeper inside and the searing stretch of his rim around the head.

Steve’s hands stroke his thighs, his ass, the sweaty expanse of his neck. His palms are rough with calloused fingers, not the sort he expects from a paper pusher. They’re working hands, strong and with a secret history.

But they’re gentle enough. Bucky likes them on his skin, body melting into the wood as Steve rubs soothing circles over his knotted muscles.

His fingers sink into Bucky’s shoulders, bruise-tight on yielding skin, and then Steve’s weight is on him and his cock’s moving inside him, and Bucky sees white for a breathless eternity.

Balls slap his thighs, and Steve’s ragged breathing fill his ears, and the skin under Bucky’s mouth is raw from his own teeth.

“Good?” Steve asks, voice deeper now, hoarse, the first slip of control. But it’s steady and so are his hands on Bucky, trailing sweet fire down his spine.

“Yeah,” Bucky rasps, raising his head and wincing when his arm twinges in pain. “You can move.”

He’s granting permission, but it’s rushed and unthinking. Steve takes him at his words, though, and Bucky buries his face in his hands and tries not to scream as he’s lit on fire from the inside.

It’s not pain, Bucky can take pain; it’s pleasure not from his own, rushed touch that his body’s unused to. And Steve’s good at this, good at fucking, working his cock into Bucky’s body like he knows all the spots that will make him scream. And he tries to hold it in but can’t help it, and then Steve’s balls-deep and frozen, and there’s a hand fisted in Bucky’s hair, yanking his head up for a palm to smack over his open mouth.

He keens, high and shocked.

“We’re not soundproofed,” Steve says, and it’s infuriating, how calm he is. Bucky’s cock drips wet between his legs. “You have to be quiet. Can you?”

Steve’s palm slides down, holding Bucky by the jaw instead, the grip tight and impatient. Bucky doesn’t have it in him to lie.

“I don’t know.”

Steve hums. He shifts a little and his cock moves with him, and Bucky’s so _full_.

“Should I keep you quiet?”

Bucky shudders, eyes rolling back, everything tightening. Steve hisses but doesn’t react otherwise, cock buried deep and unmoving, hands fisted tight without bruising.

“Tell me, James.”

It’s that name, his own yet not, that jolts Bucky to answer. There’s a strange appeal to it, that name falling soft and impersonal from Steve’s tongue.

“Yes.”

Steve hand seals his mouth as if it was only waiting, and Bucky whimpers at the touch.

Then Steve’s moving, and there’s nothing gentle about him anymore, just a hard cock plunging deep and tearing pleasure out of Bucky’s clenched gut. Bucky cries and screams, and nothing escapes but muffled whines and soft, helpless keening. His cock’s a heavy ache, slapping against unforgiving wood as his body’s rattled like a ragdoll by Steve’s brutal pace. He wants to reach down and touch it, give himself some desperate relief, but it’s all he can do to claw at the desk and not come apart at the seams.

Steve’s other hand is still in his hair, and Bucky feels like a prisoner in his hands, head held high and mouth shut tight, and it fucks him up like nothing else. He’s a little mess, squirming with nowhere to go between the deep drag of Steve’s cock and the hard wood of the desk. Then Steve pulls out till just the head is inside again, and Bucky’s rim flutters painfully around him, aching to suck him back inside.

Steve thrusts in, sudden and hard, and the angle’s new, the red-hot length of him sliding along Bucky’s prostate.

Stars burst under his lids and his cock’s a gushing mess.

He’d scream if he could, but Steve’s got hands like iron and Bucky’s weak to the prison they make.

“You like that,” Steve says, and there’s no real tone to it, just strain from how he’s pounding into Bucky. It’s amazing how a man can fuck so good and feel so little, but Bucky’s not surprised that he likes it, body flaring hot and mind turning to mush.

Steve speeds up. Pleasure races up Bucky’s spine, hot and lighting-swift, and it’s too much, all of it, Steve’s cock slamming into him and his hands holding tight, and the throb of his cock turns into a sharp, urgent thing. A touch and he’d burst, but Steve’s thumb digs cruelly into Bucky’s lip and his scalp stings and his ass is all molten sensation, and turns out Bucky doesn’t need a helping hand, just a savage thrust that sparks electric on that spot.

He sinks his teeth into the meat of Steve’s palm and comes all over himself, sudden and untouched.

Come splatters his skin, and he must have made of mess of Steve’s desk. Steve is still inside him, having stopped moving the second Bucky’s muscles started rippling around his cock, and he stays like that as Bucky comes down from it. There’s an edge to his stillness, a tang of danger that Bucky can almost taste.

Steve waits for him to go limp and soft, but after, he doesn’t stop, and he’s not gentle.

He moves, cock pulling out and ramming in, and it’s only the hand over his mouth, still firm and steady, that quiets Bucky’s shout. Steve doesn’t let up, doesn’t ease the savage strength of his thrusts, and there’s a new selfishness to his movements, like he’s mindlessly chasing his own pleasure now that Bucky’s taken care of.

Overstimulation stings, bright and burning, and Bucky can whimper into Steve’s palm and writhe on his cock, but there’s no escape from the spearing sensation birthed by each drag of Steve’s cock along his walls. Tears spill from Bucky’s eyes. There’s a knife’s edge between pain and pleasure, and Bucky’s poised at the tip.

But there’s something about it, Steve grunting and pounding away, taking his pleasure like it doesn’t really matter that it’s Bucky under him, like he’s just a nice, wet hole and any would do.

He shudders, and Steve groans, a guttural sound unlike anything he’s made so far. Bucky goes a little cross-eyed at it, and he’s too spent to be aroused again, but his body doesn’t seem to have got the fucking memo.

Steve loses his rhythm, thrusts erratic and _faster_ , and Bucky stops breathing.

Steve slams in with a gasp; they’re pressed close, and Bucky can feel him come, thighs twitching against Bucky’s, cock grinding deep like it wants to crawl all the way up to Bucky’s throat.

The frenzied energy drains out of Steve. He lets go of Bucky, who drops his head to the desk gratefully and licks his dry, aching lips. Steve slumps against him for a second—but just a second. Then he’s pulling out, carefully working his cock out of Bucky. It’s not until he’s hissing at the sting of the head popping free of the rim that Bucky remembers to miss the warm mess inside and down his thighs. It was always gross and too much of a fuss to clean up. He didn’t risk it often in the army, but he liked it, the dirty thrill of it.

He imagines he still does, if he’s feeling a pang of disappointment at missing out. Or maybe it’s just nostalgia.

“James?” Steve calls. There’s a hint of concern in his voice. “Are you alright?”

Ah, yeah, Bucky shouldn’t be just lying here like an attractive desk ornament.

He picks himself off the desk and thanks the serum for the lack of aching joints. His ass is sore as hell, and his scalp still twinges from Steve’s grip, but that’s the good kind of pain. Even they won’t linger as much as Bucky wants them to.

He pulls his pants back up and tries to button his shirt with shaky fingers. He doesn’t turn around.

But Steve’s there all the same, his broader frame enveloping Bucky’s. It’s not a hug but it’s a close approximation of it, even though all Steve’s trying to do is button Bucky’s shirt for him.

“I can do it,” Bucky says but he lets his arms fall to his sides.

Steve hums. His chest rumbles, pressed close to Bucky’s back. Steve steps away when the last button is done, and Bucky can’t stall after that; he has to turn around.

Looking at Steve is a little painful. It was from the start. He’s so handsome, it hurts, with his bright blue eyes and broad shoulders and dark beard. Bucky’s half glad that Steve rarely smiles because he’s devastating when he does, and dealing with him is hard enough already.

They stare awkwardly at each other for a few seconds. The silence is heavy.

What can they say though? Bucky came here to pick up some paperwork at the end of the day. It was routine for Steve; Bucky was stepping in for another guy who called in sick.

Now it’s at least half an hour past office hours, and Steve’s office smells like sex.

Bucky can’t say he regrets it, not yet, but tonight might be a whole other story.

If Steve turns out to be Hydra, Bucky will put a bullet in his brain. And then pistol-whip himself for being a dumb fuck led by his dick.

Steve’s the one to break the silence.

“Come here,” he says, and Bucky stumbles forward like a marionette.

Steve’s arms fold him into his huge body and that’s—that’s nice. That’s really nice. Bucky makes eye contact with Steve’s exposed collarbone and wrestles down the urge to lick it.

A man shouldn’t be so perfect.

 _Look_ so perfect, Bucky amends in his head when he looks up and is greeted with Steve’s unsmiling face. But he tilts Bucky’s face up into what is unmistakably a kiss, and when Bucky meets his lips with a soft sound of surprise, Steve’s mouth curves up against his.

It's a slow, gentle kiss, nothing at all like the way Steve fucked him. Bucky tries to stay stiff and think right, but Steve has a sweet mouth and his beard’s unexpectedly soft, and he’s lost all too soon to the warmth of their lips and the bristles rubbing against his jaw. He melts in Steve’s arms, fingers in his thick hair and a hand on his strong shoulder, and it’s nice to be held back in turn, Steve’s hands roaming gently over Bucky’s clothes as if they’re memorizing the planes of him.

When they part, Bucky’s lips feel hot and his heart’s a little bruised. Steve’s got a look in his eyes that makes them hard to meet.

Steve notices. He cups Bucky’s face. His palm’s huge and warm, and Bucky feels tiny in that gentle grasp. He lets Steve lift his head up and meets those pretty blue eyes. They no longer have the skewering intensity of Steve’s interest, and they’re not the dark, molten pools of its indulgence either. It’s a kinder look but no less devastating for it—just easier to burn in.

“You alright, kid?”

Bucky can’t help huff a laugh. Steve’s what, forty? Bucky’s ninety-seven. But it’s not fair to count the ice. That still leaves him at a nice, even thirty-four. He hasn’t been a kid in a long time.

But he just nuzzles into the hand holding his face and says, “Just fine, thanks.”

Steve smiles. That can’t be good for him, so many smiles in such short a span. It’s definitely not good for Bucky’s pounding heart. Steve’s just too pretty.

“You should go home,” Steve says. “I kept you late.”

Bucky laughs again, louder this time, freer.

“Not complaining.”

Steve’s smile twists into a crooked smirk, and Bucky’s stomach flips. But then Steve’s stepping away, straightening his clothes, and he says nothing but doesn’t have to either. Bucky adjusts his collar one last time and pats down his hair. His body aches from being well used in ways it hasn’t known for a long time. There’s the itch of slowly healing bruises on his neck and hips. He wants them to last a little longer. Maybe until morning, but that’s wishful thinking.

He stops at the door and looks back at Steve, unsurprised to find him watching but startled by the narrow-eyed heat of his regard.

Bucky has to swallow something unwise before he speaks.

“No threats? No telling me to keep my mouth shut or else?”

It’s Steve’s turns to be caught off guard. The flicker of surprise only lasts a second, smoothened over by a carefully blank expression.

“No threats,” he confirms quietly.

Bucky wants to ask more, to probe. But there’s nothing in Steve’s stance that invites questions, and Bucky knows when not to push his luck. He smiles though, small but sincere, and the answering quirk of Steve’s lips has him scurrying out of the office with his heart in his throat.

-

The thing is—Bucky shouldn’t be here.

It was never supposed to be him. Peggy was the hero. She was the one with Erskine’s serum in her veins, the one he trusted to do what was right. All Bucky got, and god did it take him too long to figure that out, was Zola’s substandard bullshit.

But Peggy got a chunk of her stomach blown off, taking a shot meant for him, _protecting_ him, and the serum was good, it was a miracle and it could heal, but even its magic couldn’t regrow Peggy’s intestines and have her combat-ready in a week.

So Bucky led the raid, jumped into a plane, and let a man with a devil’s face put him on his knees.

And when he somehow won the fight, he crashed the plane because it was his life against that of millions, and there was never a choice, was there?

He wasn’t supposed to wake up.

Now he’s in a world he barely recognizes, which doesn’t recognize him. His family’s dead, parents long gone and Becca lost in her sleep a decade before he woke. Peggy lived longer, built S.H.I.E.L.D., but she was a hero and heroes never died quiet deaths.

Tearing down the shield she built when it turned into a Damocles sword was the least Bucky could do for her, and he’s not done yet, won’t be for as long as Hydra’s filthy tendrils wrap around this world, but as good as it is to have a mission, to have purpose, it doesn’t leave him with much kindness to spare for all the parts of him that’s not a soldier.

Bucky’s a fighter to his bones, his ma used to say, but Bucky’s bones are now drenched in blood, and they ache for a reprieve.

He’s a man out of time, lost and unmoored, but for the first time in four years, he’s wearing bruises from a touch that meant to please, not hurt—or at least hurt good. His reflection wears handprints on his hips and teeth marks on his throat, and Bucky is tethered in his body, wild and alive.

-

The next day, Steve’s not in at work. That’s not unusual; he comes in maybe thrice a week. Bucky doesn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

Natasha calls during his lunch break, and Bucky answers his phone with his stomach swooping guiltily.

“Hey, stranger,” she greets warmly, voice a little higher than it is naturally. It’s an encrypted line, and she’s unlikely to be calling from anywhere she can be overheard, but Natasha is nothing if not loyal to her persona.

“Nadia,” Bucky says, playing along. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

She laughs, the sound like wind chimes. Natasha usually snorts, the sound quiet and graceless. Bucky prefers that.

“Just reminding you of your date tonight,” she says, breezy as anything. “I know you’re hopeless without me.”

“Oh?” It takes effort to keep his voice nonchalant. “That’s tonight? I forgot.”

“Mm. Your guy rescheduled, remember?”

Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Right. Got it. I’ll be there.”

“Dress up right, James.”

“I always do.”

-

He dresses up right alright. The all-black uniform Tony designed for him always makes him feel like an overdramatic villain, but that’s not to say he doesn’t like it. Natasha says it’s cathartic to indulge in that kind of thing, and Bucky heartily agrees.

She’s waiting for him inside the office, hair pinned up and clad in her suit. They must make a hell of a sight, creeping through at empty office during the witching hour, and Bucky’s oddly comforted by how most people who might catch a glimpse of them now would drop dead from sheer fear.

They’re unlikely to face any opposition. This was a short mission, more subterfuge than active combat. Bucky went in to gain access to the systems. Natasha did the digital digging.

Bucky also fucked his boss, who’s more likely to be Hydra than the office drones, but that’s a story for another day. The weirdest part is that he’s sure Natasha wouldn’t judge him if he did it for the mission. But telling her that Steve looked at him with heat in his eyes and Bucky caved like a flaming Helicarrier would probably make her purse her lips and go dead-eyed the way she does when she’s disappointed and wants you to know it.

“You take the lower levels,” she murmurs, face lit blue by the computer screen. “I’ll finish up here.”

Bucky’s got a chip in his pocket, programmed to destroy another program. Sometimes, he thinks that his war was at least straightforward. You shot, and you got shot at. Alright, it wasn’t always that simple, but this new world is something else. Your sweet-voiced phone AI is spying on you, and there are eyes at every corner. Governments are infested with fascists, and the world is on the verge of turning into a smoking dystopia.

The ice, at least, was refreshingly simple. Crash the plane and die.

Except he didn’t die.

The elevator doesn’t go into the lower levels because they supposedly don’t exist save for a storage basement. Bucky takes the stairs, breaks a few doors, and strides into a room that shouldn’t be brightly lit and most definitely shouldn’t have Steve Grant standing in the middle pointing a gun at him.

-

Bucky borrows Fury’s favorite phrase because the occasion sure as fuck warrants it.

“Motherfucker.”

Steve looks very disappointed. His gun doesn’t waver. Neither does Bucky’s.

“James,” Steve greets, in that deep, rumbling voice he used to sweettalk Bucky into bending over for him.

Alright, he didn’t have to try very hard but still.

“I’m going to pistol-whip myself,” Bucky tells him very seriously. “Why the fuck did you have to be Hydra?”

Steve blinks. His eyes narrow further.

“I’m not Hydra. You’re Hydra.”

“The hell I am! Fuck you.”

Steve doesn’t relax but something shifts around his eyes.

“I assure you, James, I am not Hydra.”

Bucky’s comm crackles to life.

“So,” drawls Natasha’s dry voice, all traces of Nadia wiped clean, “we have company.”

“Yeah, I found him.”

“I found her. Sharon says hi.”

Bucky takes a moment to process that. Steve’s still staring at him, gun raised, but he looks curious now and not interested in stopping Bucky from chatting.

“Ask her if she’s got a friend.”

They murmur, soft enough that even Bucky has to strain to hear. Bucky recognizes Sharon’s voice. He knows the answer before Natasha gives it to him.

“Yeah. His name’s Steve. Says he’s big, blonde—”

“I know.”

Bucky lowers his gun. Steve slowly follows suit.

Awkward staring ensues.

-

The Avengers technically don’t have any real authority to do, well, anything. Tony’s money gets them places. Natasha’s treasure trove of blackmail material takes them an extra mile.

And Bucky? He’s not an Avenger. He didn’t want to be. Sam’s Captain America, and he does the shield and Peggy’s legacy justice. Bucky wants no part of that even though Sam did offer, at the beginning, to share the title.

He wasn’t in the country when the Chitauri came, and the Insight mess pulled him out of hermitdom because it was Hydra, and he owed it to the ghosts of his past to cut off its heads and burn the body.

In the end, it means that no one knows Bucky’s face. No one knows of Sergeant James Barnes’s resurrection because he didn’t want them to know, and he didn’t matter enough for S.H.I.E.L.D. to push it. It makes him good for undercover stints. After all, he’s just a pretty face.

Steve sure thought so.

-

Sharon and Steve—who’s apparently Steven Rogers, not Steve Grant—is in one of the upper floors, talking to Hill and Natasha. Bucky bowed out of it after a perfunctory debrief. They got what they went for—more names, more men to uproot and throw in some dark room. There would be more of a fuss about them interfering with the CIA, but Sharon’s got their back and Steve seems pretty chill, so they’re all up there having a nice talk like semi-functional adults.

It was frankly jarring, given that Bucky’s used to the unmitigated disaster that is the Avengers all gathered in one room.

He doesn’t have an excuse for going to the gym after a brief stop at his floor to change out of his suit, but it’s what he does. And if he doesn’t name the frustration that has him punching a bag until the seams split but thinks of blue eyes and a half-smile, well, that’s his business.

Bucky sighs at the mess he’s made. Tony did offer to make some sturdier ones for him, but Bucky’s attached to the destruction under his knuckles. It’s as harmless as it can be.

Someone whistles.

Bucky whips around, and he’s not as surprised as he’d like to be to find Steve leaning on the closed door, watching Bucky with a bright, steady gaze. He’s dressed the same as when Bucky ran into his gun—a white shirt and dark slacks, so similar to what he wore to the office. He doesn’t seem to be armed, which is either very stupid or very wise.

“Why are you here?” Bucky asks, harsher than he should be, than he really wants to be. It’s not unusual, as far as defense mechanisms go. Natasha would have thrown a knife at the guy.

“Sharon’s catching up with Romanoff. They went to her floor. Figure we’ll be here a while.”

“And Tony’s cool with you lot wandering his tower?”

“Think he didn’t want to tell the Black Widow to kick out her guest. I’m just along for the ride.”

Steve doesn’t seem to particularly care about being unceremoniously abandoned in unknown territory. Bucky likes that and wants to kind of kick himself for the thought.

“Still doesn’t explain why you’re _here_ ,” Bucky says belligerently.

Steve shrugs and takes a step forward. Bucky backs up. He regrets it _immensely_ the next moment as Steve’s eyes sharpen and zero in on Bucky with even greater intensity.

“Because you’re here,” Steve says, watching Bucky like a hawk would a mouse. Bucky’s skin is suddenly too tight. “Is James your name?”

“Legally. I go by Bucky.”

Steve blinks. There’s no flash of recognition, no lightbulb moment. He just nods, calmly, and says, just as calmly, “Sergeant James ‘Bucky’ Barnes. I’d be more surprised if we didn’t live in a world with green rage monsters and aliens.”

“The rage monster is my good friend,” Bucky points out mildly.

Steve nods. He’s still watching Bucky with that predatory gleam. It’s not unfamiliar, and Bucky’s gut tightens at the memory of how it ended the last time.

“Not a lot of people remember my name these days,” Bucky says when the silence threatens to suffocate him.

And that pulls a real, wide smile out of Steve.

“I had a thing for military history when I was younger. And you stood out. Your sacrifice isn’t one that should ever be forgotten.”

Bucky’s insides squirm.

“Not a sacrifice if I’m alive.”

“Isn’t it?”

Steve’s much closer now. Bucky’s not quite sure how that happened. He takes another step back and finds his back flush to a wall, and Natasha would have his hide if she knew how bad his situational awareness has been for this whole exchange, but she’s probably too busy screwing Sharon’s brains out to care.

He blinks, and Steve’s _there_ , close enough that Bucky can see each, gleaming individual hair on his beard. He swallows, throat clicking. Steve’s eyes drop to the hollow of his neck and take their sweet time slithering back to Bucky’s.

Steve takes a single, deliberate step forward. Bucky flattens himself against the wall and doesn’t move.

His body’s strung tight, tension thrumming in his muscles, and Steve’s proximity does not help. Those enormous arms rise to rest on either side of Bucky’s head, caging him in, and Bucky’s so tense that he’d break at a touch and so turned on that he’d beg for it.

None of that’s lost on Steve. He’s got a keen stare and a budding smirk, looking down at Bucky with an expression that says Steve’s got him right where he wants him.

“Not a kid at all, are you?” Steve asks.

It takes Bucky a solid minute to gather enough brain cells to make the connection.

“No.” He manages a smirk of his own. “Older than you.”

“Hmm.”

One of Steve’s hand leaves the wall, Bucky’s face its new target. Knuckles brush feather-soft against his temple and trail down, leaving a pleasant tingling in their wake. When Steve splays his hand around the side of Bucky’s throat and places his thumb on the cleft of his chin, that tingling turns into a vicious heat that floods his whole face.

“How old are you, really?”

Bucky could say ninety-nine and be right, technically. He probably should, if only to not give away information.

“Thirty-four,” he whispers instead.

He can see Steve do the math, but his only real reaction is another, considering hum and a tilt of his head. It’s not quite the way he acted in the office. This is more aggressive, less restrained. Like he knows he’s got Bucky and is only toying with him.

Bucky’s traitorous cock gives a needy throb.

The tip of Steve’s thumb brushes his lower lip. Bucky’s stomach swoops. There’s only a single point of contact, and Bucky’s drowning in the distance, aching to feel the heat that’s a mere foot away from him.

“I felt like a right pervert when I had you bent over,” Steve says. The words take a few seconds to register. Bucky’s on _fire_. “Little slip of a thing. And so easy for me.”

“H-hey.”

Steve’s thumb is over his lips now, a teasing pressure. Bucky wants to open his mouth and suck it in. He holds his breath instead.

“I liked it,” Steve says. He smiles, wide and with a hint of teeth. “Wanted to just eat you whole.”

Bucky’s heart is pounding, his head spinning. He’s pinned to a wall by a man who fucked him silly two days ago, and the situation’s not so different. Bucky still can’t quite say how he went from Steve’s hand on his wrist to being fucked over a desk, just that Steve had a way of looking at him with the full force of his attention and touching him with a careful distance their bodies that squirmed under Bucky’s skin and blanked his brain.

He's doing it now, and it’s working like a charm. Bucky’s got his back to the wall and a mountain of muscle not quite pinning him to it, and he’s a breath away from dropping to his knees and begging to be put to work.

“Aw, honey,” Steve breathes and _oh_ , that’s new. “You need it so bad, don’t you?”

Bucky trembles.

Steve’s hand leaves his mouth and drifts to his shoulder. He pushes down, and Bucky’s knees hit the floor, flaring with pain that does little to ground him.

The fist in hair does a better job. It tugs his head back, and Bucky swallows with effort, staring at the pleased curve of Steve’s mouth rather than his eyes. Steve’s other hand curls loosely around his throat, heel pressing in on his pulse, casually proprietary. Bucky makes an embarrassing noise.

“Such a pretty mouth,” Steve says. “It’s been driving me crazy since I saw you.”

Bucky licks his lips. Steve’s grip tightens on his throat before releasing him entirely. The hand in his hair remains, but it allows Bucky to lower his head. It puts him at just the right level to contemplate the impressive bulge in Steve’s pants.

“C’mon,” Steve says softly, more command than suggestion. “Put it to good use. You want to, I can see that.”

It’s not a lie. Bucky’s flushed and panting, staring hungrily at Steve’s groin. But he can’t make his hands move, can’t make _anything_ move, just sit there with Steve’s hand in his hair and a marked lack of warmth around his throat.

Steve sighs. He doesn’t sound displeased.

“Take it out, Bucky.”

Bucky takes it out. Steve makes a faint noise when Bucky finishes fumbling with the clothes and wraps his fingers around his prize. For a moment, he just stares, because he’s had Steve’s cock in him, knows how big it is, how good it feels, but it’s something else to hold the long, flushed length of it and feel it slowly fill with blood.

He rubs tentatively at the head. It’s thick and red. Cut. It looks almost painful. When Bucky leans in to dare a quick taste, Steve’s hand tightens in his hair. He’s quiet in that way people get when they’re trying very hard to be quiet, but Bucky can hear his deep, controlled breaths. It gets him hot, to feel the break in Steve’s careful composure and know he’s the cause. Bucky looks up at him and burns hotter at the way Steve’s looking at him like he wants to eat Bucky alive.

“Bucky,” Steve murmurs, eyes half-closing. “Go on.”

It’s like Bucky is waiting, constantly and never consciously, for permission. It undoes something in him. He’s damn near desperate when he puts his mouth on Steve, and his own cock aches for a touch, but it’s all Bucky can do to cling to Steve’s thick thighs with both hands and swallow him down.

He's out of practice, but that only reminds him that he has missed this—the heat and weight of a cock on his tongue, the burn when it pushes at the back of his throat, the tightness in his lungs when it slides in deep.

Bucky pulls off coughing, lips and chin wet. Steve’s tugs a little at his hair but doesn’t thrust his cock back into Bucky. Half of Bucky wants him to, the other half wants to take his time and drive Steve wild the way he did to Bucky in the office. It’s the worst kind of dilemma.

And it’s a relief when Steve makes the choice for him.

His free hand cups the side of Bucky’s face, the touch deceptively gentle. His thumb swipes over Bucky’s lower lip, tugging it down. Bucky licks at it, quick and teasing, and Steve laughs quietly.

“Open up,” he says, and Bucky obeys without thought.

Steve’s the one who fills Bucky up this time, rubbing the blunt, heated head over his lips, teasing him with the taste of it. Precome drips on Bucky’s tongue and he swallows thickly, the needy pit at the bottom of his stomach gaping in want. Steve gives it to him, pushing his cock into Bucky’s mouth, a slow, steady slide that gives Bucky just enough warning to brace for it to hit the back of his throat.

He still gags, but Steve doesn’t stop, just holds Bucky in place by hair and waits for him to stop choking.

“Easy,” he says, quiet but not very kind. “Breathe now. You can take it.”

It’s not a question and sure as hell not a suggestion. Everything about him screams control, and there’s no mercy in the throbbing heat of him. And Bucky does take it because Steve said he can but not all of it. He digs his nails into the bony planes of Steve’s hips and tries to breathe past the suffocating size of him.

Steve doesn’t pull out so much as use Bucky’s hair like a leash to pull him off his cock. He moans, shuddering all the way down to his toes, and chokes on his next breath when Steve reverses direction, forcing Bucky back onto his cock. And he’s not so gentle this time, pressing past what Bucky thinks he can take. He scores his nails down Steve’s hand, and it doesn’t even jolt him.

His nose meets the trimmed patch of hair at the base of Steve’s cock. The scent of him is heavy there, a heady musk that has Bucky clenching everywhere. God, he’s missed this.

Steve shifts his grip, tugging at new places on Bucky’s scalp, and he’s prepared for it, but the slow, relentless drag of Steve’s cock along his tongue and then down his throat still makes harsh white spear through his thoughts. And then Steve does it again, and again and again, and Bucky trembles at his feet.

He doesn’t have to anything, just stay on his knees with his mouth wide and throat open, letting Steve use him as he wants.

The thought’s fire in his veins, but Bucky burns in muffled whimpers.

Steve thrusts in, fast and sudden, and tears spring to Bucky’s eyes, rolling helplessly down his cheek. He can’t breathe around the cock rammed down his throat. Everything’s a haze of slow, simmering heat.

“Hey,” Steve says, so soft and polite, nothing like he’s the kind of guy who’s watching Bucky choke on his cock. “Feels so good, honey.”

Bucky sobs. He’s a wreck, just from this, and his cock aches, hard and slick with precome. He wants to reach down and cup himself, grind into his palm for some desperate relief, but his hands are frozen on Steve’s hips, fingers curved into tight claws.

Steve pulls out, all the way this time, leaving Bucky choking on the aftertaste. He gulps in air, great lungfuls of it, but the respite doesn’t last long. Steve yanks his head up, feeds Bucky his cock, and Bucky squeezes his eyes shut with a whine. The taste and scent of Steve floods his system, throbbing in his blood to the pounding beat of his heart. He must be leaving marks, nails tearing Steve’s skin and fingers bruising the milky-white of his thighs, and he wants to care that Steve’s only human, but restraint is a distant dream when Steve’s breaking him down into a thing of breathless want with just a cock in his mouth.

And then Steve _speeds up_ , and Bucky’s lost.

If Steve warns him, he doesn’t hear it, and he chokes on his release, the bitter taste of come both familiar and not. He swallows most of it, but some escapes, trickling down his chin and throat, branding him with its dirty heat. Steve’s softened cock is slow to slip out of his mouth, sliding over Bucky’s tongue like it’s addicted to the velvet-warmth of it.

Bucky whines when the head slips past his lips, smearing come over them. He licks at it, stomach clenching at the taste.

Above him, Steve’s breathing hard. His thighs are tense under Bucky’s touch, muscles like steel under soft skin. And then they’re not, the tension trickling out of Steve bit by bit.

His fingers loosen their grip, digging pleasantly into Bucky’s scalp. They massage him lazily for a few moments, and Bucky rests his forehead on one of Steve’s thick thighs and just breathes. His throat aches, and that won’t last much longer that the bruises Steve left did, but Bucky relishes the soreness while he can, swallowing and shivering at the dry throb.

Steve lets go, and Bucky peers through half-lidded eyes as Steve pulls his pants up and does his fly. But Steve doesn’t leave him bereft for long. He uses Bucky’s hair to yank him to his feet. Bucky’s never been more glad than he chose to grow it out. Steve’s probably going to pull half of it out, but well, it’s about time the serum started earning its keep.

He slumps against the wall, and Steve steps forward to pin him there. Bucky groans, arching against the solid warmth of him, and Steve laughs with a look that’s the gentlest Bucky’s seen on him. It only proves that the guy’s not immune to a good orgasm, but Bucky still knows he’s going to remember the crinkles at the corners of his eyes and the softness around his mouth as vividly as the actual fucking.

That’s when Steve presses his open palm between Bucky’s legs and makes his brain screech to a halt.

“You’ve got a problem there,” he says, the asshole. “Want some help, Buck?”

It kills Bucky a little, that teasing _Buck_ , as if Steve decided Bucky’s ridiculous name isn’t ridiculous enough for him. He doesn’t think about the intimacy it implies because he and Steve aren’t intimate; they just fucked a couple of times and only once knowing each other’s real names.

Bucky rolls his hips into Steve’s hand and yells when the pressure of his hand suddenly disappears.

“I asked you something, sweetheart.”

Bucky goes weak-kneed at the endearment and blinks owlishly at Steve for a few long seconds before what Steve really wants register.

“I—yeah. Yeah, I want it.”

Steve’s cheeks are flushed, his eyes dark, but it’s the crooked curve of his mouth that captures Bucky’s smitten gaze.

Steve kisses him, smirking lips crashing into Bucky’s. It’s a hard, graceless thing, teeth pressing roughly together on either side of half-open lips. Bucky gasps into it, Steve tilts his head, and then they’re kissing good and deep. Steve’s tongue curves around his, and Bucky jolts when he realizes he’s tasting himself in Bucky’s mouth. It’s absurd how that makes him blush and squirm when it was infinitely filthier to be down on his knees for Steve, but it is what it is, and Bucky squeezes his eyes shut and gives into Steve’s teeth and tongue.

He likes that, likes melting into Steve, knowing he’ll be held tight and used well.

Steve pulls away, and Bucky chases his mouth helplessly, only to be pushed back against the wall by a hand on his throat. He swallows, pushing against Steve’s hand, pulse racing. Steve just tightens his grip until Bucky feels a strain in his breathing.

Steve is staring at him with darkened eyes, unmistakable intent in them.

His leg pushes in between Bucky’s, thigh rubbing up against Bucky’s cock. Even through two layers of fabric, the pressure is maddening. Bucky grinds against it, yelling when pleasure sinks sharp teeth into his gut.

Steve’s eyes narrow, smile widens. It’s not a pleasant expression—too much teeth in his smile, too much of a gleam in his eyes.

“Can you come like this,” he says, and it’s not a question.

Bucky freezes, staring wide-eyed at Steve, too turned on to breathe and just as stunned.

Something like approval ripples across Steve’s face.

“Yes,” he says, “you can.”

His thigh presses harder into Bucky, rock-solid and almost painful. His hips jerk into it, messy and uncontrolled, and then Steve’s got both hands on his hips, pulling Bucky into the demanding bulk of him.

He tries to—to say something, just scream maybe, but Steve kisses every sound off his lips and leaves Bucky’s lips raw and swollen before he sets his mouth to the sensitive line of his throat. And he doesn’t let up once, hands tight on Bucky’s hips, thigh pressed tight to his clothed dick.

Bucky gasps for air, throat tingling from the rough slide of Steve’s beard and blood on fire from the solid pressure of his leg. And he tries, he does, not to come in his pants like he’s new to the consuming heat of another body moving in rhythm with his, but it’s been a losing battle from the first stifled whimper. 

He pulls at Steve’s hair, yanks at the thick cotton of his shirt, and all it gets him is wet suction over his pulse and a grinding slide against his cock.

It’s impossible not to give in to the soaring heat in his veins, and it’s a relief too, the whole of him shuddering and slumping as his cock jerks inside his briefs and wetness seeps into his track pants.

Steve says something, or maybe it’s just a sound, but whatever it is, it’s muffled by Bucky’s skin. Steve licks over his newest bruise and pulls back, but he doesn’t go far, hands still firm on Bucky, body a mass of warmth against his. He takes Bucky with him when he steps back, and every movement is gross with come lining his underwear and seeping through, but it’s nice to be in Steve’s arms, good to be cradled in a gentle hug and allowed to just breathe.

So Bucky does, nosing at Steve’s throat, the smell of sweat and sex flooding him with every breath. He likes it and knows he’ll spend a lot of cold nights chasing the memory of this scent.

Something narrow and almost sharp is pressed into his palm. Bucky closes his hand automatically around it but can’t summon the strength to check what it is. It won’t blow up, probably. At least not when Steve’s still here with him.

Lips brush his temple.

Steve pulls back a little, and Bucky sways a bit on his feet before reluctantly letting him go. And he doesn’t know if he’s imagining the hesitance with which Steve draws away, fingers lingering, but he likes to think he isn’t.

They stare at each other for a few moments.

Steve reaches for Bucky’s face with one hand. It’s quick—a graze of skin on his cheek and a mouth that meets his. Steve steps back before Bucky can even feel the pressure, leaving him with warm cheeks and tingling lips.

“Call me,” Steve says, nodding to something between them. “If you’d like.”

Then he turns on his heels and marches off. Bucky gapes after him, watching until the broad line of Steve’s shoulders vanish out the door.

He looks down, opens his hand.

It’s a card, dark grey with silver lettering, the design minimalistic to the point of plainness.

 _S.G.R_ , it says.

And under that, there’s a number.

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a comment if you can <3


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